Lucky Stuart Knight, thought the Director, he’s gone through the last seven days without the information I have. Now the meeting was over, the Director’s confidence in his own stratagem was renewed, and he was resolved that only he and Andrews would ever know the full story — unless they had conclusive proof on which to secure the Senator’s conviction. He had to catch the conspirators alive, get them to testify against the Senator. The Director checked his watch with the clock on the Old Post Office Tower over the Washington Field Office. It was 7:58. Andrews would be due in two minutes. He was saluted as he went through the revolving doors of the Bureau. Mrs. McGregor was standing outside his office, looking agitated.
“It’s Channel Four, sir, asking for you urgently.”
“Put them through,” said the Director. He moved quickly into his office and picked up the extension.
“It’s Special Agent O’Malley from the patrol car, sir.”
“Yes, O’Malley?”
“Andrews has been killed, sir, and there must have been another person in the car.”
The Director couldn’t speak.
“Are you there, Director?” O’Malley waited. “I repeat are you there, Director?”
Finally the Director said, “Come in immediately.” He put the phone down, and his great hands gripped the Queen Anne desk like a throat he wanted to strangle. The fingers then curled and clenched slowly into the palms of his hands until they made massive fists, the nails digging into the skin. Blood trickled slowly down onto the leather-work on the desk, leaving a dark stain. Halt Tyson sat alone for several minutes. Then he instructed Mrs. McGregor to get the President at the White House. He was going to cancel the whole damned thing; he’d already gone too far. He sat silently waiting. The bastards had beaten him. They must know everything.
It took Special Agent O’Malley ten minutes to reach the Bureau, where he was ushered straight in to the Director.
My God, he looks eighty, thought O’Malley.
The Director stared at him. “How did it happen?” he asked quietly.
“He was blown up in a car; we think someone else was with him.”
“Why? How?”
“Must have been a bomb attached to the ignition. It blew up right there in front of us. Made an unholy mess.”
“I don’t give a fuck for the mess,” began the Director on a slowly rising note, when the door opened.
Mark Andrews walked in. “Good morning, sir. I hope I’m not interrupting something. I thought you said 8:15.”
Both men stared at him.
“You’re dead.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Well, who the hell,” said Special Agent O’Malley, “was driving your Mercedes?”
Mark stared at him uncomprehending.
“My Mercedes?” he said quickly. “What are you talking about?”
“Your Mercedes has just been blown to smithereens. I saw it with my own eyes. My colleague down there is trying to put the pieces together; he’s already reported finding the hand of a black man.”
Mark steadied himself against the wall. “The bastards have killed Simon,” he cried in anger. “There will be no need to call Grant Nanna to screw their balls off. I’ll do it myself.”
“Please explain yourself,” said the Director.
Mark steadied himself again, turned around and faced them both. “I came in with Elizabeth Dexter this morning; she came by to see me. I came in with her,” he repeated, not yet coherent.
“Simon moved my car because it was occupying a reserved daytime parking space and now the bastards have killed him.”
“Sit down, Andrews. You too, O’Malley.”
The telephone rang. “The President’s Chief of Staff, sir. The President will be with you in about two minutes.”
“Cancel it and apologize. Explain to Janet Brown that it was nothing important, just wanted to wish the President luck on the Gun Control bill today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So they think you’re dead, Andrews, and they have now played their last card. So we must hold ours back. You’re going to remain dead — for a little while longer.”
Mark and O’Malley looked at each other, both puzzled.
“O’Malley, you return to your car. You say nothing, even to your partner. You have not seen Andrews alive, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get going.”
“Mrs. McGregor, get me the head of External Affairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Director looked at Mark. “I was beginning to miss you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, I’m just about to kill you again.”
A knock on the door, and Bill Gunn came in. He was the epitome of the public relations man, better dressed than anyone else in the building, with the biggest smile and a mop of fair hair that he washed every two days. His face as he entered was unusually grim.
“Have you heard about the death of one of our young agents, sir?”
“Yes, Bill. Put out a statement immediately that an unnamed special agent was killed this morning and that you will brief the press fully at eleven o’clock.”
“They’ll be hounding me long before then, sir.”
“Let them hound you,” said the Director sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
“At eleven, you will put out another statement saying the agent is alive...”
Bill Gunn’s face registered surprise.
“...and that a mistake has been made, and the man who died was a young garage attendant who had no connection with the FBI.”
“But sir, our agent?”
“No doubt you would like to meet the agent who is supposed to be dead. Bill Gunn — this is Special Agent Andrews. Now not a word, Bill. This man is dead for the next three hours and if I find a leak, you can find a new job.”
Bill Gunn looked convincingly anxious. “Yes, sir.”
“When you’ve written the press statement, call me and read it over to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill Gunn left, dazed. He was a gentle, easy-going man and this was way above his head, but he like so many others trusted the Director.
The Director was becoming very aware just how many men did trust him and how much he was carrying on his own shoulders. He looked back at Mark, who had not recovered from the realization that Simon had died instead of him — the second man to do so in eight days.
“Right, Mark, we have under two hours left, so we will mourn the dead later. Have you anything to add to yesterday’s report?”
“Yes, sir. It’s good to be alive.”
“If you get past eleven o’clock, young man, I think you have a good chance for a long and healthy life, but we still don’t know if it’s Dexter or Harrison. You know I think it’s Dexter.” The Director looked at his watch again: 8:29 — ninety-seven minutes left. “Any new ideas?”
“Well, sir, Elizabeth Dexter certainly can’t be involved, she saved my life by bringing me in this morning. If she wanted me dead, that sure was a funny way of going about it.”
“I’ll accept that,” said the Director, “but it doesn’t clear her father.”
“Surely he wouldn’t kill a man he thought might marry his daughter,” said Mark.
“You’re sentimental, Andrews. A man who plans to assassinate a President doesn’t worry about his daughter’s boy friends.”
The phone rang. It was Bill Gunn from Public Relations.
“Right, read it over.” The Director listened carefully. “Good. Issue it immediately to radio, television, and the papers, and release the second statement at eleven o’clock, no earlier. Thank you, Bill.” The Director put the phone down.
“Congratulations, Mark, you’re the only dead man alive and, like Mark Twain, you will be able to read your own obituary. Now, to bring you quickly up-to-date. I have three hundred field agents already out covering the Capitol and the area immediately surrounding it. The whole place will be sealed off the moment the Presidential car arrives.”